


Five of Cups

by masongirl



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Autumn, Crying, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Sad, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/pseuds/masongirl
Summary: Carwood's decision to walk home saves a stranger's life.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	Five of Cups

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if I should post this because I wrote it entirely to comfort myself, but then I figured someone might feel the same and could benefit from reading something like this one. 
> 
> Please heed the tags, lovelies, and [call someone](https://faq.whatsapp.com/general/security-and-privacy/global-suicide-hotline-resources/?lang=en) if you're in a crisis.

Dirt and mist roll down on the window in fat, tired drops, drawing lines on the glass as the bus stutters to a stop. Carwood circles the button on his umbrella and glances at the driver before he leaves the stuffy warmth inside and steps out into the cold. The doors hiss closed behind him, and the bus leaves in a cloud of exhaust gas and fatigue, flicking and stirring the murky water pooling on the asphalt. Carwood's gaze follows its grimy yellow glow until it fades into the grey-blue night. The smell of rain and rotting leaves permeates the air.

He walks onto the bridge and thinks of Ron. He's been getting better about it lately, but the permanence of it still scares him sometimes, and he needs a distraction to keep his mind occupied. This is why he decided to walk the rest of the way home - the cool humidity doesn't bother him anyway. It's late, and the roads are quiet. Only the rumble of the rare passing car interrupts the wheeze coming from the river. It was stupid of Carwood to work overtime again, but he couldn't stop listening to Ron's voicemails and he lost track of the time. One of the messages soothed him today. It was a reminder of the mischief in Ron's eyes whenever he got away with something illicit that made Carwood laugh.

_"You may think I'm silly, but the nurse kept annoying me with these stupid cards - I don't need a fortune teller now, do I? We all know what's coming. Well, I stole her deck out of spite. I was going to throw it all away, but one of them reminded me of us, Carwood… Our situation. You'll understand. I hid that card in your wallet. Keep it for me, please. And promise you'll only look at the upright cups, sweetheart."_

As he nears the middle of the bridge, the breeze picks up and sprinkles drizzle into Carwood's face, but he doesn't open his umbrella. The wind would just wrench it out of his grip and drag it down into the water, feed it to the whirlpools. Instead, Carwood tightens Ron's scarf around his neck to ward off the chill and the ache in his chest. He wishes it still smelled like him, but it's a useless desire, isn't it? He thinks of Ron's goodnight hugs, the warmth of his body and his caresses, then sighs. _Your favourite season, love._

There's a lone figure ahead, wrapped halfway in fog and darkness, and he's not moving. It's a man. A short guy with too long hair that curtains his head in dripping wet strands. There's no coat around his shoulders or briefcase by his feet - he looks like he's here for no other reason but to stand there by the guardrail and watch the river flow. A drop of water trickles down Carwood's temple. He can only imagine how soaked the man must be.

“Hey there, is everything okay?” He calls out, slowing his steps. His hands clench in his coat pockets.

“What?” The guy replies dazedly. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, man. Lovely night.”

"It is, isn't it?" Carwood plays along. It's an ugly, cruel night, but there's still something special in it, and he'll do his best to help this man find it. "Not everyone gets to see the city this quiet."

"Lucky us." The stranger deadpans, then slips his palms over to the other side of the guardrail for a surer grip. Carwood's pulse races, but at the same time, a veil of chilly calm settles on his mind.

"I just wish I didn't have to get up so early tomorrow." He muses as he inches closer. "I never get enough sleep."

For the first time, the man looks away from the water. He glances up at the sky and bites his lip. "I haven't slept in two days."

Carwood gets close enough to see his face now, the dark circles under his eyes, the redness of his nose, his two-day stubble and the wetness clinging to his long eyelashes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The man shakes his head. His fingers shift in the filthy water that coats the guardrail. 

Carwood hooks his umbrella on his forearm to keep both of his hands free. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Uh-huh. Tall guy in a black hoodie. He's got a scythe." The stranger smiles, but it's neither happy, nor playful, just dull and automatic, as if he's so used to joking that even in his darkest moments, he tries to deflect attention with humor.

"I think he might not be able to make it tonight." 

The man chuckles and looks down at his hands. "Too bad."

Carwood closes the remaining distance and extends a hand, hoping it would draw one of the guy's arms away from the piece of metal that separates him from death. "I'm Carwood. What's your name?"

"George." The stranger mumbles. He doesn't loosen his grip, still acting like he might try to haul himself over the barrier any second.

"Let me call someone for you, George." Carwood keeps his voice gentle and slow as he puts his left hand on George's back. 

George's shoulder blades sag, and he bows his head. "There's no one to call." 

The rain picks up and makes both of them shiver. It might be a good sign, Carwood thinks, if George is starting to feel the cold. "Talk to me then. I know you're in pain. Let me help."

George pinches the bridge of his nose, and the rainwater on his fingers paves the path for the tears that tumble off his eyelashes and over his cheeks. His breath hitches. "You can't."

Carwood thinks of Ron again and remembers how it felt to watch on helplessly as he slipped away no matter how hard Carwood held onto his hands. There's nothing sadder in the world than hearing _'you can't'._ "Can I show you something?"

At long last, George pulls his other arm away from the guardrail and crosses it on his chest. He shakes with every breath he takes. "I just want to be alone right now."

Carwood reaches into his messenger bag and takes the little laminated card out of his wallet. He knows the words will scrape his heart, but he says them anyway. "This was my husband's last gift to me."

George opens his eyes and turns away from the river to look at the card. A tear rolls down to his chin and hangs there for a second before dropping into the abyss. "I'm sorry."

Carwood shakes his head, then smiles. "I learned how to look at the full cups instead of the broken."

George's tearful gaze meets his, and something finally cracks.

"I'm tired." George blinks, and a sob shatters in his chest. His face crumples, and the merciless wind just keeps on blowing damp strands of hair into his eyes. "I can't do this anymore. I want to stop."

Carwood pockets his card and reaches for George's shoulders. "It's okay." 

"No, it's not." George cries and sinks like a puppet right into Carwood's waiting arms.

"I got you, George." Carwood says as he tightens the embrace and rubs warmth back into that shivering body while the sobs pour ink-black pain out of George's heart. "Got you. I'm here."

It's going to be all right. Carwood may have three broken cups he'll never be able to put back together, but now that it's in his arms, he knows he kept one upright today. He closes his eyes and, for a second, he feels Ron's caress on his cheek.

_~End~_


End file.
